But always, they say, it is God who disposes....
And for all this mood of premature resignation to the bourgeois virtues
Duchemin was glad enough when his fourth day in Meyrueis dawned fair,
and by eight was up and away, purposing a round day's tramp across the
Causse Noir to Montpellier-le-Vieux (concerning which one heard curious
tales), then on by way of the gorge of the Dourbie to Millau for the
night.
Nor would he heed the dubious head shaken by his host of Meyrueis, who
earnestly advised a guide. The Causses, he declared, were treacherous;
men sometimes lost their way upon those lofty plains and were never
heard of more. Duchemin didn't in the least mind getting lost, that is
to say failing to make his final objective; at worst he could depend
upon a good memory and an unfailing sense of direction to lead him back
the way he had come.
He was to learn there is nothing more unpalatable than the repentance
of the headstrong....
He found it a stiffish climb up out of the valley of the Jonte. By the
time he had managed it, the sun had already robbed all vegetation of
its ephemeral jewellery, the Causse itself showed few signs of a
downpour which had drenched it for seventy-two hours on end.
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